


Damaru

by IndigoStarblaster



Category: Breaking Bad, Firefly, Indiana Jones Movies, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Firefly AU (racer-cruiser sailing yacht), Porn With Plot, Sex Pollen, first attempt at porn, gift fic to childhood friends, multiple Mary Sue POV characters, original female antagonist, scientific and postmodern approach to magic and spirituality, woodland sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoStarblaster/pseuds/IndigoStarblaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally supposed to be a set of Mary Sue porn ficlets as a Christmas gift to my dearest childhood (well, pre-adulthood) friends, each to be set in the fandom of her choice. Then I thought of a way to tie them all together with some semblance of plot, and before I knew it, there I was researching the ancient woodlands of Great Britain and which neurotransmitters are implicated in orgasm. More than anything, I wanted to write something that my friends would enjoy reading, and that would let my friends know how much they mean to me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damaru

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Pirate Queens](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Pirate+Queens).



> Written for the Pirate Queens, Christmas 2012, and posted with their permission.

**Vice:** A drum.

 **Zhen:** Yes.

 **Zhen:** More precisely, a 'magical spiritual drum'.

 **Tyler:** Is that different from a spiritual magical drum?

 **Vice:** Duh. The former is a spiritual drum that's magical, whereas the latter is a magical drum that's spiritual.

 **Tyler:** Smartass.

 **Vice:** You know you love my ass.

 **Oksana:** Should we set up a meeting?

 **Zhen:** Her references check out. I thought it sounded interesting.

 **Tyler:** Makes a nice change from space elevators.

 **Vice:** What? I thought the space elevator project was *awesome*.

 **Tyler:** I'm not saying it wasn't. Just that magical spiritual drums are a nice change. It's been a while since we did the magic thing.

 **Oksana:** So...?

 **Vice:** Sure, fine. Let's do it.

 **Oksana:** I'll open up the LA office.

 **Zhen:** I'll tell the client. See you all in five?

 **Tyler:** Better make it ten. I have a clutch of radioactive spiders here, not sure what to do with them yet.

 **Oksana:** DO NOT BRING THEM TO LA.

 **Tyler:** :)

*

AB Logistics was what one might call a special projects firm. It did some consultancy work, some specialized manufacturing, some rare artifact procurement.

Also some vanity press publishing, very large number calculations, photocomposition, musical composition, espionage, 3D modelling, chemical synthesis, nucleosynthesis, bounty-hunting, information arbitrage, guerrilla theatre. Their most recent work was a comprehensive space elevator work-up for Elon Musk (who is putting his money on reusable rockets, but wanted a thoroughly vetted benchmark for comparison's sake). Before that, there was the so-called "fountain of youth" project for a very grateful aging Hollywood mover and shaker.

It did, in short, anything its four founders -- lifelong friends and general polymaths -- felt like doing.

They thought of calling themselves The Everything Girls, but that name was already taken by a cleaning company in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.

*

**Chapter 1: Los Angeles**

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I believe you can help me, and I hope you are willing." The new client was dressed like a starlet, some kind of white tunic thing with a chiffon scarf wrapped around her throat and trailing down her spine. She had dark eyes and undeniable charisma. The intricate coil of her golden hair gleamed under the halogen lights.

Zhen said pleasantly. "Thank you for thinking of AB Logistics." The others kept their faces carefully blank. They all knew that Tyler was mentally snorting and Vice internally rolling her eyes. AB Logistics did not advertise. The client knew of their existence because they had let her know. "Before we promise anything, however, we need to know exactly what you are looking for. Can you tell us more, how you came to... know your desire?"

The client inclined her head. "I've always been a very spiritual person. I keep a book by my bedside where I write down my dreams. I believe they have meaning. Over the last year, I've had the same dream over and over. In the dream, I am dancing." The client closed her eyes, swayed slightly as she spoke. "As I dance, I play a drum, a very special drum, and the secrets of the universe are laid out before me." She opened her eyes, and now there was a strange light in them. "I have thought about this dream over and over, and I think I know what it means. I want you to make me this drum."

Oksana picked up the tablet nearest to her, tapped a few times, then turned it to show to the client. "These are some common percussion instruments used by dancers." Despite the impersonal words, Oksana's tone was gentle and intimate. Establishing a rapport. "Did the drum in your dream look like any of these?" The client's eyes flickered over the images of tambourines, castanets, finger cymbals, tom-toms...

"There." She pointed at something that looked a short wooden barbell or hourglass, two beads on short strings wrapped around the narrow middle.

Oksana took the tablet back, skimmed the description. "A damaru. Used in sacred dances, in both the Hindu and Tibetan Buddhist traditions." A quick flick of the fingers sent the same information to the other display devices scattered through the room.

The client smiled with satisfaction. "I could tell it was something important."

Zhen glanced at the tablet in her hand. "We can make you a damaru, of course. But the specifications..."

"The secrets of the universe are laid out before us all the time," Vice said abruptly. "They aren't secret because they're hidden; they're secret because we just don't read universe very well. Are you looking for a drum-shaped decoder ring?"

Affronted: "I'm looking for _magic_."

"And we need to know what you mean by magic." The four of them had a certain flare for the kind of advanced technology that was, in the eyes of many of their clients, indistinguishable from magic. And then there was the other kind.

"I mean... I mean it must have magical properties, spiritual properties. It must have _resonance_." Her lip twisted a little. "I've spoken to so many fraudsters. Psychics and shaman and so-called practitioners of Wicca. I'm not interested in being fleeced. What I am looking for is something real."

Vice persisted. "But what is it you expect the drum to _do_?"

"That will depend entirely on what kind of drum you make for me," the client said dismissively. "I expect that you will make me what I want, and I will dance with it, and whatever is to happen will happen."

The four friends exchanged looks, and Tyler leaned forward. "Maybe we can go about this another way. You mentioned that you've tried to get others to make you the drum, and you were unsatisfied. Is that to say you know real magic when you see it?"

"Of course."

"Great." Tyler grinned. "Let's find out what you mean, and calibrate ourselves accordingly."

Within minutes, the client and four friends were wearing mesh caps of AB Logistics design. Tyler explained as she hooked each of them up to the imaging and diagnostic equipment. "There is no such thing as a magic detector. What we do have, though, here at AB Logistics, is a cutting edge... fMRI? Sort of. Let's just call it a brain activity detector.

"We can figure out what kind of patterns you fire when _you_ detect magic. We can figure out if our brains can register the same thing you do, or at least figure out what _we_ register when we encounter something you identify as magic. Assuming magic detection is any kind of a human skill, we should between us have at least some nascent ability, which we can use to guide us in putting together something that will meet your requirements."

The client inclined her head to one side. "So you cannot identify magic yourselves, but you can identify what I would identify as magic?"

"Maybe. Surrogate markers are a great life hack."

The client looked at Tyler for a moment, then the others. "I knew you would be the ones to help me."

Tyler shrugged. "Let's see whether this works first."

They brought out items one after another for each of them to hold and contemplate while their brain activity was monitored -- the client's serpent-and-moon pendant, a pen picked up by Vice at some hotel or other, Zhen's favourite tablet (that she always had with her, never more than an arm's reach away), a wedding ring that had belonged to Tyler's grandmother.  The client had an uncanny ability to detect items that had meaning for the four friends, and lingered long over a flower arrangement that Oksana had picked up on impulse from a local florist just before opening up the office, but that each of them could agree felt _right_ somehow.

They also talked concepts -- scientific, religious, artistic -- homing in on those matters which had resonance for the client, calibrating their own responses and programming in screening parameters. It appeared, whatever magic actually was, there was a surprising amount of unanimity among them as to what kinds of things had it.

"So what we're getting is that you would like a small drum, about six inches high, mostly made from once-living things -- no plastic, not too much metal -- with as many allusions to the world's oldest religions as we can muster," Vice summarized, rapidly typing the specifications into her tablet.

Zhen said, "You know that in order to tan the drumskins we might need to use inorganic mineral salts, aldehydes, aromatic polymers or the like?"

The client cocked her head, considering, consulting some inner barometer. "Yes, that's fine. But that reminds me of one more requirement that comes from the dream?"

"Yes?"

"The drum must incorporate the blood of a murder victim." The client's voice was soft, and the room suddenly seemed colder.

"Do you need us to arrange a murder?" The slightest edge to Oksana's voice.

"That I leave to you. You are the ones making the drum." The client's smile was now enigmatic.

"Anything else?" Zhen asked calmly.

"I don't believe so. When will you be done?"

Zhen glanced at the others, then said, "We need to work out the exact design and our fabrication approach. And we need to source the materials. We'll let you know when we're ready."

Tyler held up her tablet. "This is an estimate of expenses and overhead, which we'll need upfront. After that, we'll let you decide what the drum is worth to you." It was AB Logistics' standard pricing scheme.

The client barely looked at the display. "I'll have it wired to you immediately. And anything else you like, once you deliver. I have every confidence it will be worth it." She stood, smoothing down the wrinkles of her dress. "I look forward to our next encounter." She looked each of them deep in the eye, let her fingers linger over each handshake.

"Until next time." They politely saw the client out, watched until the remote camera showed the client leaving the building. Then the four friends collapsed.

"Jesus." Vice threw herself down in a chair.

Zhen took a deep breath. "Impressions?"

"She should have been flaky. Gorgeous blonde, dream journal, magical drum. But she's anything but." Tyler shivered.

"Anything else?"

"Pheromonal output through the roof," Oksana noted.

"So it wasn't just me?" Vice asked. "She was starting to get pretty freaky towards the end, but part of me still wanted to pull that scarf off to kiss her neck."

"Definitely not just you," Tyler confirmed. "She's got a whole 'fuck me, I'm lethal' thing going on."

"Not our average client. Can we deliver?"

"Now that we have the parameters, it'll be a cinch. Well, except for that one ingredient," Vice considered. "And I even have an idea for that."

"We need to be careful," Oksana said quietly. "Shadow market." It was their shorthand to refer to the world where the barter of influence, favours, information, goodwill -- and also the flipside of refusals, insults, failures -- meant more than any dollar amount.

"Tyler?"

Tyler shrugged. "This isn't the weirdest project we've ever been asked to take on. Or even the skeeviest. And it'll keep us in tea and cookies for the next decade." It was an old joke; early projects had earned enough to allow the four friends to live in comfort in perpetuity. Now it was about the challenge.

Zhen nodded. Consensus. The four friends started sketching out an initial design together, each on their own device but working on a common set of documents, murmuring quietly as they made adjustments, filling in blanks and considering variants.

After a few minutes, Vice spoke as she worked. "What do you think she actually wants the drum for? What do you think she can do with it?"

Oksana said absently, "Maybe it depends. Did you know that some damaru are made of human skulls?"

Vice grimaced. "Let's use as few human body parts as possible, 'kay? I said I have an idea for the blood, but it's not going to be easy." Then: "We're going to need to run some simulations."

"I need time to call in a few favours anyway." Oksana pulled up her address book.

"And I'd like to do a bit more research," Zhen agreed.

Tyler studied the spec sheet. "I can get started sourcing the body of the drum. I'm thinking Savernake Forest?"

"Near Stonehenge?"

Tyler nodded.

"Good idea." Zhen updated the spec sheet accordingly. "Be careful, though. I'm pretty sure that's protected heritage something or other."

"Of course it is." Cocky grin. "Be back before you know it."

*

**Chapter 2: Savernake Forest**

"Oh, you beauty," Tyler crooned. She ran an appreciative hand over the ancient tree, the Big Belly Oak of Savernake Forest, Wiltshire, England. This wasn't quite what she needed, though -- this particular tree was too well monitored, and a tourist was too likely to come upon her before she finished.

Instead, she wandered deeper into the wood, pushing through thicket that discouraged most idle walkers. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, to feel the leaf dappled sunshine on her face. Here, among druidic oaks, she felt most herself. As foolish as it was, she even let herself walk forward slowly with her eyes closed, letting the Force (she grinned to herself) guide her.

Surprisingly, it did not lead to disaster, despite the tangled undergrowth that threatened to trip her with every step. Instead, when she opened her eyes, she found exactly what she had come for. The oak in front of her was wide and venerable -- at least a thousand years old. Even better, a couple of heavy branches lay on the ground beneath it. Tyler dropped to her knees, ran her fingers over the thicker one, rapped it with her knuckles with her ear against the rough bark. Sound through the heartwood. Brought down by wind or lightning or its own weight, not disease or infestation. On the ground no more than a few days, under dry conditions.

Tyler took a cutter from one of her pockets, looped the almost invisible thread of it around the branch, slipped the short handle back into the long one and pressed the control. It made a barely audible _snick_ as the two halves thumped back to the ground.

"Are you supposed to be doing that?"

Tyler barely managed to keep herself from stiffening in surprise; it had been a long time since anyone had managed to sneak up on her. Instead, she called out, "Be with you in a minute." She kept her movements steady and sure as she measured off ten inches and looped her cutter again. _Snick_. She tucked the resulting small log into her shoulder bag, and only then got to her feet, dusted off her knees, turned to look at the speaker.

He was standing knee deep in underbrush, about ten feet away, and looked familiar: craggily handsome features, battered leather jacket, fedora at a distinctive angle... Tyler grinned. "Dr. Jones, I presume?"

He looked puzzled, then grimaced ruefully. "I suppose my reputation precedes me?"

"Anonymity is pretty much impossible once you've been featured in _Rolling Stone_ magazine as 'The Rock Star of Archaeology'," Tyler agreed. "And then there's the video footage."

"Pardon me?"

Tyler said cheerfully, "Your graduate students maintain a YouTube channel for you. 'Indiana Jones lectures on sampling bias', 'Indiana Jones versus the cross-disciplinary faculty meeting'. It actually predates the magazine article, but I guess their hit count went through the roof after it. I particularly liked 'Indiana Jones demonstrates aerial survey analysis'."

He snorted, then stepped forward, shaking his head. "You very much have the advantage of me, Ms...?"

Tyler stuck out her hand, "Just Tyler. Pleased to meet you."

"Indy." They shook, and he looked down at the sections of branch still behind her. "Sampling?"

"Harvesting." She rolled her eyes at the disapproving wrinkle of his brow. "It's all right. This isn't Amazonian rain forest. These oaks have been coppiced and pollarded for centuries, by generations of foresters. The sectioning of fallen branches barely even registers."

"You're a forester?"

"Freelance." Tyler put on her most innocent face, as though freelance foresters were a natural occurrence in the Ancient Woodlands of Great Britain. She didn't think he was fooled, but neither did he question her.

Instead, he looked up at the giant oak and said, "I don't think I've ever met a forester before. What does 'coppiced' mean? And 'pollarded'?"

"They're harvesting techniques. Here." She turned to trace a finger over the wide trunk, and he stepped close enough that she fancied she could feel the warmth of him beside her. "See this, the old scars, grown over? The trunk has been cut and new shoots have been grown from the stump to make timber, over and over. That's coppicing. Pollarding is when you do it higher up, to make thin poles or leafy feed. I'd say from the size of the trunk this one was coppiced once every fifty or even hundred years, to give it time to grow."

"Really?" He traced his own callused finger over the ripples in the rough bark, tilted his head back to consider the wide leafy canopy sixty feet above them. "Hard to believe a tree can come back from being chopped down."

"Not all trees coppice well. But _Quercus robur_ have remarkable resiliency; they're like tall and sturdy weeds. An oak can have usable lumber taken from it almost indefinitely, if it's done carefully." She put an affectionate hand on a low branch. "Over a thousand years of service, this one has."

He glanced at her. "So you can read trees?" He looked across to another tree, similar in size and shape, about fifty feet away. "What about that one?"

"Oh, well." She walked towards it, looking upwards appraisingly, and he followed. At one point she stumbled over a bit of undergrowth and he was instantly beside her, a steadying hand under her elbow. It felt...nice. _Stop it, Tyler_ , she told herself. But it did. And she couldn't quite help putting her hand on his arm as they walked, to avoid stumbling again. "Um. This one is younger. Eight or nine hundred. You can tell from the thickness of the trunk it's been harvested, too, probably in alternation with our friend back there -- sorry, don't know either of their names."

"They have names?"

Tyler shrugged. "There are the famous ones, of course, the celebrities everyone knows. Big Belly Oak and Queen Oak, Saddle Oak and Spider Oak. Those are the ones with labels and regular tour stops. But I can't imagine the foresters didn't name them all. They would watch a tree for a hundred years before making a cutting. I don't think they would have spent all that time referring to it as 'that big one that's three hundred twenty-seven paces from the bend in the river, son, don't cut it until your sons have sons of their own'."

He laughed and she glanced at him, grinned at his appreciative look. After a moment he said, "So, the bit you harvested..."

Tyler obligingly pulled it out of her shoulder bag and handed it to him, a little curious to know what he would make of it.

Whether he believed in magic or not, he clearly had some of the same instincts she did. He seemed struck by the weight and heft of it, the texture of the bark under his fingers, turned it in his hands over and over. He even put it up to his nose to smell it, the heady aroma that made oak barrels such a favourite with wine-makers. Then he ran his fingers over the cut ends and frowned, alert. "This... Did you cut this with a laser?"

Tyler shook her head. "Monofilament loop. Less damaging."

He peered closely at the ends. "This is amazing. I've never seen anything like this."

"It's not as flashy as your famous bullwhip, but we all have our tools in the field." He actually groaned, which made her laugh. "Sorry." He handed the log back to her, and she tucked it away again. "So what brings you to Savernake Forest, anyway?"

"Archaeology conference. 'Ancient Religions and their Artifacts."

Tyler noted the coincidence, but decided not to mention it. "And how are you finding it?"

"Not bad. A couple of interesting papers, and yesterday evening we did a field trip to Stonehenge."

"Did you participate in some kind of druidic ritual? Dance around the stones, offer a human sacrifice?"

"Actually, it may surprise you to know that no artifact or image confirmed to be of druidic origin has ever been found. Stonehenge is pre-druidic in its construction and the--" He abruptly stopped himself, said sheepishly, "Sorry. 'Indiana Jones lectures hapless bystander'."

Tyler snorted. "I just bent your ear on coppicing for the last twenty minutes."

"It was fascinating."

She gave him a _You don't have to be polite_ look and he looked back _But I wasn't_. He even seemed to mean it. _Hmm._ "So. Stonehenge. No druids, then, but it was midsummer's eve. Was there no celebration at all?"

"A number of other groups had bonfires in the nearby fields, but... Well. We're archaeologists," he said self-deprecatingly. "We were there to examine chisel marks and estimate the rate of rainfall-related erosion."

Tyler looked at him for a moment. _What the heck_. "I'm going to take advantage of this opportunity to teach you something more about trees. And druids." She took his hand in hers. "Start walking. Don't pick a direction or destination. Just...let yourself walk."

He raised an eyebrow, but did as she asked. Tyler spoke casually as they meandered, hand in hand. "Savernake Forest has been tended for literally thousands of years. And before that, it was wandered for thousands of years by druids, who were tree worshippers. So I'm not surprised there are no confirmed druidic artifacts. There is nothing to suggest they cared about _stuff_. What they cared about were trees. Living among them.

"And they would have done just what we're doing now. Just…walked." She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, felt sunlight and shadow on her face, as she had before. Felt the tiny shift in his body that meant he was looking at her. She shivered as she felt _something_ run through her like a current. Felt it run through him. Call and response, old as the hills.

Tyler opened her eyes, gave him just a sidelong glance, kept walking slowly. After a moment, she started speaking again, softly. "You think we've just been wandering, directionless. But we've been following the rise of the ground, getting higher to see farther, without going too high, where we'd be too exposed. Staying close under the trees, where it's sheltered. It's instinct for humans.

"And it's midsummer, one of the four high holy days shared by all pagans the world over." She glanced up, said, "Fetch me that, please?" He looked up, saw the tangle of green in a low-hanging branch above them. He pulled it down, a trailing vine with small oval leaves, handed it to her, and she nodded her thanks. Started twisting it together, as they continued walking. "You at least saw the bonfires, which is part of the ritual. But not all." Spotted the characteristic circle of trees. "Through here." Pushed through an especially high tangle of brush, pulling him after her.

He blinked, and said wonderingly, "This is... Could you tell this was here?" Somehow all the walking through scrubby underbrush, under oak and the occasional birch, had led to this small hollow of bright green moss, white starflowers and baby ferns, sheltered by the circle of trees and undergrowth on every side. It was like a fairy bower in the golden light of  late afternoon.

"In spring, this would be a bog pool, a puddle. But now it's midsummer, it's warm from hours of sunlight, and it hasn't rained for days." She beckoned him closer, and he bent down slightly. She put the tangle of green, which she had twisted into a circle, over his hat, like a crown, and kissed him. "Mistletoe," she said mischievously. And held up another circle, waiting.

He looked at Tyler for a moment, then took it from her fingers, placed it over her head, bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. Pulled back a little. "I think I know this next part," he teased. Bent to kiss her again, slowly. Deepened the kiss, and when they broke to breathe, started trailing kisses along the nape of her neck. Tyler felt her breath and pulse quickening. She dug her fingers into the short hair at the back of his head, shuddered at the noise he made in his throat, whimpered as one large warm hand came up to cup the fullness of her breast while the other held her lightly between the shoulder blades. His mouth came back to hers. He tasted faintly of coffee.

Her knees started to give out and he lowered the two of them down into the hollow, as soft as a feather bed beneath them. Tyler lost track of time in the forever now of kisses, the punctuation of buttons and zippers slowly undone, his and hers, fingers slipping in to caress bare skin, slipping out to peel away clothing inch by inch, followed by more exploratory kisses. At some point his fedora fell off and he groped for it without looking, to set it safely aside, which made her giggle. He pulled back to look at her questioningly, but she only ran her fingers along his jaw, pulling him back in for more kisses.

He took her nipples into his mouth, one after the other, and the warmth and sensation of it made bright explosions behind her closed eyelids. His mouth trailed lower, and suddenly he was gently nudging his tongue up inside her, which made her arch and gasp. She thought hazily she should return the favour, but she was enjoying this too much to stop quite yet _not yet oh god yes_ \--

The pulse and throb of it twisted her inside out for an endless moment, before she came back to her senses. She wanted _more,_ and scrambled to sit up, push at him until they were both naked and kneeling, facing one another. She bent double to lick his erection from base to head, and he groaned, a noise that went straight to the warmth and wetness between her legs. She groped in the side pocket of her shoulder bag, found the condom and opened the package. She pulled away, blew lightly over his straining cock, then unrolled the condom over his cock using her mouth. "Holy fuck," he gasped, throwing his head back.

Tyler pulled back and he looked down at her, slightly dazed. She knew what a wild pagan she appeared, with her disheveled hair, swollen mouth and pale skin streaked with bits of moss and mud, and the thought made her laugh. "Yes. Exactly." He growled, pushed her on her back, settled himself between her legs, slowly and thoroughly penetrated her over and over until she lost all capacity for coherent thought, conscious only of being filled and drawn out, pulled apart until she dissolved in bliss, crying out until she felt him shudder and fall apart, too.

Afterwards, he wrapped his arms around her and they enjoyed the last warmth of the sunlight, the endless afternoon of the longest day of the year. "So where exactly did you gain your remarkable--" he bent to kiss her temple "--knowledge of druids?"

"I have pagan ancestors, of course."

He waited.

"I was a druid in a past life?"

He raised an eyebrow.

Tyler sighed. "Fine. _The Mists of Avalon_." He snorted with laughter, and she added, "And intuition. Which, you must admit, is something the druids themselves would have relied on. So."

"I concede it." He kissed her again. "Can I take you to dinner?"

"I should probably get to the airport before I miss my flight," Tyler said regretfully. She sat up and started getting dressed. He watched her for a moment, then started doing the same.

When they were more or less decent, he offered his arm, and they started walking together back towards civilization. He hummed a little as they walked, and Tyler smiled when she recognized it, joining in softly at the chorus: " _No maid I've seen like the brown colleen/That I met at the county down._ "

They were almost back to the forest gate, when Tyler turned suddenly to him and said, "Can I ask you something in your field of expertise?"

He blinked in surprise. "Of course."

"About ancient religions and their artifacts. Grails and swords and magic flutes." She hesitated, then: "Their supposedly spiritual properties. Is there any reason to think they might actually...do anything?"

"Ah." They walked in silence a few paces. "As a scientist, I would say that there is no such thing as the supernatural, the inexplicable. Anything that actually happens must have natural causes, even if we don't know what they are." They walked a few paces more. "That said, I've seen things. And I've done things that have…required prolonged suspension of disbelief." Neither of them said anything more until they reached the forest gate.

At the gate, they made their farewells, Indy taking the wreath from her hair and carefully tucking it inside his jacket before he bent to kiss her one last time. All during the flight back to LA, Tyler could feel herself thrumming in a quietly contented way. Wondered if it meant anything.

*

**Tyler:** Where are you guys?

 **Vice:** Are you back in LA? I'm in Albuquerque.

 **Tyler:** What are you doing there?

 **Vice:** Having tea with the Queen. What do you think I'm doing?

 **Tyler:** Any luck?

 **Vice:** Too soon to know. You?

 **Tyler:** I think you could definitely say I got lucky. I'm turning on the resonance detector now.

 **Vice:** Jesus. Tyler. What did you do.

 **Tyler:** I regret nothing.

 **Vice:** You're showing activity in almost every part of the brain. And theta waves.

 **Vice:** Did you have an orgasm in the Savernake Forest?

 **Vice:** Or take heroin?

 **Tyler:** Please. My body is my temple.

 **Oksana:** Hi, Tyler. Just got back from the acoustics lab.

 **Oksana:** This looks good. High levels of spiritual resonance were exactly what we were hoping for. The client should be pleased.

 **Tyler:** I'll log my report and update the project plan.

 **Tyler:** Zhen, where are you?

 **Zhen:** In an undisclosed location, trying to get sufficient quantities of some extremely controlled substances.

 **Tyler:** Having fun?

 **Zhen:** Tanning agents  are less magic, more chemistry. Your procurement will have to have resonance enough to cover both of us.

*

**Chapter 3: [redacted]**

"Thank you again, Director Fury, for all your help," Zhen said sincerely.

Nick Fury was normally a tall and imposing figure, from black leather eyepatch to steel-toed boots, but he was unusually relaxed at the moment, his face softened by an actual smile. "Zhen, it's always a pleasure."

There was a knock at the door, and a man wearing a sleeveless version of SHIELD's black service uniform came in. "Sir."

"Barton, please escort our guest to SCSSR5 and stay with her until she has what she needs. Let the agent on shuttle duty know when our guest is ready to go back to the airport."

"Sir."

Zhen and Fury both stood, and Fury walked around his desk to shake hands. "Good luck."

"Thank you. See you again soon." Zhen tucked her bag against her, looked around to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, then stepped into the hallway. She glanced up at her escort. He looked around her own age. Traces of old scars on his bare arms, all lean lines and compact muscle. A nose that had been broken at least once; it gave him a tough but friendly look. Short sandy hair, remarkably long eyelashes... He met her eyes calmly, and Zhen realized she had been staring.

Zhen felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment, tried to cover it with small talk. "Agent Barton, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am." There was a touch of a Mid-western accent.

"So, how long have you been with SHIELD?"

He paused. "I'm afraid that's classified."

 _Of course it is._ She glanced around at the windowless corridor, thought about how Fury's office had been windowless, too. The whole facility was probably underground. "Any point talking about the weather?"

His mouth quirked. "It must be summertime by now."

Zhen hoped it was a joke. Then again, she knew SHIELD provided barracks for staff, so it was entirely possible that they might spend days underground at a time. She wondered if vitamin D deficiency was a common concern for them.

He seemed content to continue their walk in silence. They stopped in front of an elevator, entered when it arrived, went down a dozen floors. When they exited, the corridor looked exactly like the one they had been on. Eventually Barton stopped at a door marked "2016-16C656 (SCSSR5)" and punched numbers into the keypad. There was a click and he pulled open the door, gestured Zhen inside, and positioned himself just inside the room. He relaxed against the wall, arms folded, eyes lowered as though lost in thought, or maybe just to give her privacy.

Zhen looked around, spotted the inventory log on a small desk near the door, sat and typed in her requisition, digging into her bag at one point to pull out and scan in the authorization form Fury had signed. She printed out the requisition list and started wandering up and down the stacks, trying to figure out the filing system. Eventually, she found index numbers matching one of the items on her list, reached up to pull open the drawer and realized there was no way she would be able to see the labels on the containers inside. She stifled a sigh -- being short was such a pain sometimes -- looked around for a stepladder, and suddenly Barton was standing right next to her.

"Need a hand?"

Zhen probably didn't _need_ help, but she was happy to accept it. "Yes, please. Is there a container marked 200805040001.2016.0752 in there?" She folded the paper to mark the item and passed it to Barton.

"Hang on." He pulled the drawer open until it was almost entirely blocking the aisle, scanning the contents. Eventually he pulled out a plastic box and handed it to Zhen. "This it?"

She put it on the ground, pried it open. It was filled with glass vials, nestled into packing foam. Zhen checked the identification number, carefully pulled out one of the vials, and put it in the carrying case  she had brought with her. She closed the box and handed it to Barton, who put it back in the drawer and pushed the drawer shut. "Thanks."

"Next?"

Zhen consulted her list. "I _think_ these coordinates mean stack 35, column 17, drawer 3..." There were several items on the list and it took time to track down each one. When the drawer was above her eye level, she read off the identification number and Barton retrieved the storage box. When it was lower down, she pulled it out herself. Barton showed no impatience, and did not fidget or hover when he was not needed. He simply waited, focussing on nothing in particular. Zhen found it rather restful.

One of the items was in a drawer above Barton's head. Zhen started to say "I'll go find a ladder" but before she could, Barton simply pulled out the drawer and somehow vaulted himself onto the drawer's side rail, ninja-style. Zhen gaped. He found the storage box, jumped down again (landing soundlessly on the polished concrete floor) and handed her the box. It took all of three seconds.

"Um." Zhen hated to be a spoilsport, because she was _impressed_. But still. "A lot of these substances are volatile. And toxic. It would probably be bad if you brought down a drawer by standing on it."

Barton paused. "Good point."

Zhen couldn't help grinning at his slightly sheepish expression. Then she put down the box and pulled at the tab. The lid seemed to be stuck. She struggled with it and Barton crouched down, leaned over her.

"Do you need--"

The lid abruptly pulled free, jostling the box. Zhen frowned to see a vial rolling loose in the box. When she reached in to pick it up, the stopper fell out and her hand jerked slightly in surprise, sending a cloud of extremely fine yellow powder into the air. Both Zhen and Barton jerked back, but not before Zhen felt it settle like cool mist on her face.

 _Oh, fuck._ Zhen tried to keep hold of herself, forcing herself to read the label on the vial before putting it back in the box and closing the box with shaking fingers, standing up. "Decontamination shower, Agent Barton, where is it?"

He shook his head. "There isn't one in here; this is just a storage room."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me." She couldn't feel anything on her face now -- it wasn't caustic, whatever it was -- but her heart was racing, and she felt hot and cold at the same time.

Barton looked a little tense but his voice was calm. "There's one in the lab down the hall, we can--"

"No! We have to keep the release contained, at least until we know..." Zhen was finding it hard to think. She was also starting to shiver, despite feeling flushed. She wrapped her arms around herself, which seemed to help a little. The long-form chemical name had been on the vial, as well as a common name given as "H-966". But it didn't make any sense. She didn't recognize it, but from the construction of the chemical name alone she could tell it wasn't any kind of a tanning agent, would have no enzymatic effect on collagen at all... She screwed her eyes shut, trying to remember.

"Are you ok?"

She felt Barton's hand on her arm, just a light touch, but it jolted through her. Her eyes flew open. She took in his dazed expression, saw that he felt it, too. He immediately dropped his hand, backed off, and they both winced at the physical pain that was now lancing through them.

"Sorry. I--" His hand came up again, but then he clenched it into a fist, put it down against his own thigh, breathing hard.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Zhen remembered now what the H-900 series designated. Not tanning agents. She forced herself to look Barton in the eye, grit her teeth to keep her voice steady. "We've been hit by H-966. Aerosolized aphrodisiac. If you have a significant other in this building, you should go to them right now."

She could see Barton putting together her words and what he had to be feeling, saw him frown. "Sex pollen? That's real?"

"It's real." She found herself mesmerised by his beautiful hazel eyes, staring at his throat _the hollow there, must kiss it, wonder what it tastes like_ and forced her eyes away. "If you--"

"Don't have anyone that way." Strain in his voice.  "What's plan B?"

Zhen resolutely forced down the part of her that was whispering _yes sex do it_ and tried to sound normal. Clinical. "Scenario one is we try to burn this out of our systems with sex. We'd have to do it in a particular way--" blushing "--to get our neurotransmitter levels right, but if we're careful there should be few if any side effects.

"Scenario two is we lock ourselves away -- separately -- and let our bodies metabolize the pollen without sex over the next 36 to 48 hours. It's a more dangerous option. The chemical stokes the limbic system, locks it into a positive feedback loop. It's...it's going to hurt. A lot. Heart attacks are not uncommon.  

"And we'll have to be physically restrained. This variant is pernicious that way -- we'll be driven to masturbation but that's actually likely to make it worse." She realized she was already pressing her thighs together, trying to leverage the friction against her underwear, _fuck_ , this was going to be impossible.

Barton hesitated, then said, "Your call."

"I think it's pretty obvious. Sex pollen and volition don't really go together." Zhen tried to sound casual.

"So you really don't want this." His eyes were unreadable.

Zhen laughed weakly. "Wanting to isn't a problem here."

"But that's the chemical, right, not you. You wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for the pollen."

"Barton, I swear to you that if I wouldn't normally be having sex in a storage room with a gorgeous stranger, it's not because I don't _want_ to." Zhen tried not to be humiliated by his reluctance. "If this is something you really don't want for any reason, it's ok. We should just call in a containment team, get it underway.

"But if you'd actually be ok with option one, please don't be noble for my sake, because more than anything I want you to touch me now and I evidently have no shame." She averted her eyes, voice trailing off.

And then, thank god, he closed the distance between them, was bending down, one hand holding the back of her head, was kissing her, keeping it light, and it felt _wonderful_ , easing the cold and pain inside her even as a different, warm ache intensified. Zhen put her arms around him, went on tiptoe to try to press every part of her body to his. She was not quite successful. His arm came around her upper back to support her, which felt wonderful -- every point of contact felt wonderful -- but was also so awkward, pressing her breasts against his solar plexus, that they had to break the kiss, clutching each other to keep from falling. He caught her eye and they both burst out laughing.

"We need a bed. Can we go to my quarters?"

Zhen shook her head. "H-966 disperses fast, but we really shouldn't break isolation until there's been a full air filtration cycle. Maybe the floor?" They looked doubtfully down at the polished concrete, which was probably cold as ice and twice as hard.

"Maybe there's a first aid blanket in here or something." He turned away and they both flinched at the instant tightening of muscles, the ghost of nausea overlaid over cold emptiness -- separation was definitely not in the cards. Through trial and error they discovered that holding hands kept the worst of the pain at bay. It wasn't nearly enough to relieve the insistent chemical demand, but at least allowed them to explore a little. They started pulling open the cabinets, found rolls of bubble wrap and large sheets of high density packing foam.  "Good enough." Barton started laying out the foam over the bubble wrap. Zhen kept her hands on his back so he could work two-handed. "You said before, we have to do this a particular way?"

"Oh. Right." Zhen collected her thoughts, tried not to think about the warm flex of his back muscles under her hands. "Some sex pollens make you want to have sex specifically with strangers -- they induce novelty-seeking. Some just make you insatiable, eager to nail anything that moves. H-966 is the 'now kiss' variant. We need to trigger not just dopamine release, but also oxytocin, estrogen, endorphins, the whole suite of pair-bonding neurotransmitters."

"You lost me after trigger." He tore off sections of packing tape to anchor the makeshift mattress to the slippery floor.

"Um. We need to generate--" Zhen searched for the right words. "--gooey, in-love feelings. That means lots of cuddling, kissing, light touch in the buildup, as well as whatever else we need to get to orgasm, as close to simultaneous as we can. It's important that it doesn't just feel like sex -- if we flood our brains with dopamine at the outset, the way this pollen works, we'll want more but the dopamine overload will make it harder for us to get the kind of orgasm we need to burn this out."

"Gooey in-love feelings?" He stood back to look at his work. "Better than the floor, anyway."

"Oh, god, that was a total boner killer, wasn't it." Mortified, she hid her face against his shoulder, sighed at the relief offered by even a little more skin to skin contact, involuntarily curled into him more. "I'm sorry I suck at this."

"No, hey, it's fine. I can do gooey. The boner is still a go." He gave her a sidelong look. "Any chance you have a condom?"

"No." Zhen tried to think it through. "I don't think it has to be penetrative sex, as long as our neurotransmitter levels are high enough. We'll just…have to be careful." They exchanged a look, both of them considering the self-control they would have to exercise during sex pollen sex.

"Fuck." He put his forehead against hers for a moment. "What should I call you?"

She was confused for a moment, then realized that Fury never introduced her by name. "Zhen. My name is Zhen."

"Clint."

He hesitated, then bent to kiss her again. The chemical cold receded. This time, as the kiss became more intimate, he guided her down to their makeshift bed. He propped himself up on an elbow, lying beside her, and ran his free hand over her hair, her body, stroked her and murmured things that made her laugh. She kissed back eagerly, touching him wherever she could reach. He kissed her forehead and thumbed her nipples through her thin shirt until she groaned and reached down to press the hardness of his cock through his cargo pants. He sucked in a breath, said in a strained voice, "Zhen. If we need this to be simultaneous, you need to not do that yet. I'm... I'm a lot closer than I should be."

"Ok. Um. Bring me off first." She couldn't believe she was saying this, but there was no room for embarrassment here. "There's a good chance that I'd be able to have a second with you after."

"I would love nothing more than to bring you off." He took his time, unbuttoned her shirt and the front of her pants, stroked her and trailed his fingers down her belly and over her mound, dipped into her where she was so wet and warm and she arched into his hand, whimpering. He moved his hand steadily, keeping up a sweet clitoral pressure with the palm of his hand while three of his fingers went deeper and deeper with every stroke. He bent over her to graze his teeth against the soft flesh between her neck and her shoulder, and when her breath quickened, fastened his teeth there, sucking gently and increasing the pressure of his bite until she tightened hard around his fingers and cried out so wantonly she shocked herself.

Even as she was still riding out the aftershocks, she reached down and rubbed her hand over his still clothed cock and he groaned loudly. It had to be aching something fierce and it filled a hunger in her, to feel the weight and hardness of him. She rubbed him until he seemed to be riding a crest of it, then slipped her hand inside his pants and boxer briefs to bring him to new heights, trailing fingers through the copious wetness of the tip to spread it over the head, grasping the soft skin of the shaft. He kept his fingers inside her, moving them in the same rhythm she was using on him.

He was already curling into her, so she turned her head, lips brushing against his neck as she spoke, "You have the most perfect body, Clint. Your cock is so beautiful, I love the weight of it, the thickness and the length. I wish I could take it into my mouth--"  That made him swear softly and grind hard against her hand, made his fingers curl inside her, and she clenched in response.  "--take _you_ into my mouth, take you as deep as I can and swallow around you.

"But I can't. I can't because if I do I'll want you inside me, fucking me--" She tightened her grip, sped up the stroke, and he moaned as though in agony, "--spreading me open, fucking me deep, coming inside me, god, I want--" and Clint came long and hard, coating her hand, gasping, and she came again, arching against his hand, pulsing and pulsing as though his orgasm and hers were one and the same.

Eventually, Zhen unclenched her fingers and Clint slowly pulled his fingers out of her. He collapsed on his back and pulled her close to him, actually seemed to fall asleep. Zhen realized that at some point the burning artificial need had been overtaken by wholly natural desire, and when she tested herself now she felt only satiation. Clint abruptly blinked awake, then sat up. "Hey. It worked?"

"I think so. Just one more thing to try." He looked at her, then nodded and let go, moving back slightly. When they were no longer touching, Zhen felt a pang of disappointment, but not actual pain. He was watching her face closely, and she tried to smile. "Guess we're done."

To her surprise, he moved back in for a hug, kissed her hair, smiled down at her. "Don't have to. Just want to."

Zhen hugged back, rested her head against his chest, and it felt just right, steadied her so that when they finally moved apart again, it was fine, it was ok. They cleaned up what they could with alcohol wipes that were meant for the computer equipment, re-buttoned and re-zipped their clothing.

When that was done, Clint looked at her. "If you think it's safe to open the door, I'd better call Fury now."

Zhen felt herself blushing, but only said, "Of course."

Director Fury himself came down to do the debrief, while SHIELD technicians swooped around them, taking away the box on the floor, dusting the drawer for fingerprints, scanning the inventory log, pulling up the taped-down foam sheets for disposal. Zhen explained how the sex pollen vial had been misfiled and loose in the box, and Clint added his speculation that someone must be pilfering from it. They described their actions in the aftermath of the accidental exposure and Fury thankfully asked no follow-up questions. A technician sidled back in to give Zhen the last vial of chemicals she needed (wiped clean of any remaining traces of pollen) and Fury promised that there would be an investigation and heads would roll.

And then Clint was taking her back through the halls, up the elevator, handing her over to the agent waiting for her in the parking garage. Zhen looked at Clint. "Thank you for everything, Agent Barton."

His mouth quirked. "Ma'am."  He nodded to her and the other agent as Zhen entered the windowless passenger section of the SHIELD van, and left.

As Zhen buckled herself in, she felt something buoyant and light inside her, happiness that had nothing to do with sex. She tried to figure out what it was. It had to do with the way Clint had looked at her, at the last. It wasn't lust. There was affection there, but that wasn't quite it, either. And then she had it. Even after all that had happened… It was respect.

She couldn't stop smiling.

*

**Chapter 4: Los Angeles, again**

Zhen walked into the LA office to find the rest of AB Logistics looking at her expectantly. No surprise there; she had written and sent in her report during the flight.

"So. Sex pollen." Vice believed in directness.

"Yes."

"How do you feel about it?" Careful not to assume anything.

Zhen sighed. "See for yourself." She put on the scanning cap and turned on the brain activity detector.

Her friends watched the monitor and then Tyler turned to her with a huge grin. "That good, huh?"

"The best, " Zhen admitted, cheeks burning.

"This is awesome. Why are you embarrassed? This is the first time you've gotten laid in, what, six years?"

"Yes, thank you for reminding me I've spent most of the last decade celibate. I think this was well worth waiting for." Zhen hesitated. "Despite the ridiculously uncomfortable context, it was...life-affirming."

Tyler laughed and Vice held up her fist for a bump, but Oksana asked, "Do you think it's a coincidence?"

Zhen stopped short. "What are you thinking?"

"I've been trying to dig a little more into our client. I know, Zhen, you did the reference check double-blinded." This was rare but not unheard of; many of their clients preferred anonymity. "But I went looking for a name, and I found two.

"Sometimes she gives her name as Purity. Sometimes she's a boy named Rudy. Either way, first and second levels down, it all looks good. Deeper than that, though, and the trail goes cold."

"So I actually hit a deep cover? Damn." Zhen blew out an exasperated breath; she wasn't usually that sloppy.

But Oksana shook her head. "Maybe. But I think it might be something else. The terms of this project are unusual enough. And now the procurement..."

"You think the client is engineering something? Setting us up?" Tyler asked.

Oksana was silent for a moment. "I think it's interesting how the cosmic forces are aligning themselves."

Purring voice: "Yes, isn't it?"

The four friends whirled around. Somehow the client had managed to bypass security cameras and multiple locked doors, was now seated herself comfortably in the same chair as last time. This time the golden hair was piled high in a coronet and she was wearing a skin-tight black leather jumpsuit.

"What are you doing here?" Vice asked bluntly.

"Just checking up on you. After all, you've been checking up on me."

Oksana moved into the sitting area, all graceful composure, eyes on the client.  Taking point. "I imagine you don't need to be here to check up on us."

"No. I don't," the client said softly. "But I like you all so much, I thought I'd visit." _Which you cannot stop_ , her eyes added silently.

It took no conscious thought, no explicit communication between the four friends. One of the reasons they worked so well together was that each of them could play several roles, which in turn allowed them to present many different faces of AB Logistics as the situation required.  Without seeming to move at all, Vice and Tyler were in flanking position, Zhen just a bit apart. Backing Oksana's play.

Oksana said pleasantly, "Please make an appointment next time. As a professional courtesy. We're working hard on your project, and it's sending us out all over the place. It would be a shame for you to come all this way and…not find us here."

There was a silent confrontation, the client narrowing her eyes and Oksana calmly meeting her gaze. Then the client sat back with an affectation of carelessness. "So how is my drum coming?"

"Not quite half done."

The client waited, but the four friends stayed silent. At last, the client stood, arched her back in a theatrical stretch. "Well. I really must be going."

Oksana nodded. "Safe travel." She did not offer to shake hands. The client flashed them all a wicked smile, let herself out, was gone. They watched the security camera feed but did not see her leave the building.

After a moment, Vice commented, "She was wearing that chiffon scarf again."

"Crazy chic, right?" Tyler snorted.

Oksana was about to speak, but then her handheld beeped. She scanned the screen. "It's my contact. I think I'm up."

"Now? It's already after five," Zhen frowned.

"The contact is only in port for 24 hours. If I leave now I should get there before nine." She looked at Tyler. "Can you finish shaping the resonator without me?" It was a silent question to all the friends. _Are we still doing this?_

"Sure. I know which model we're using." _Not sure we could back out if we wanted to._ No one contradicted this.

Zhen said, "I can't start on the drumskins until Vice gets the special ingredient--"

"Yeah, I'm going to need--"

"It's okay, you don't need to hurry," Zhen interrupted. "In fact, I'm thinking, maybe we should wait on it until we have a good idea what we're really doing here. Oksana, mind if Vice and I follow up your thought, do a bit more analysis?"

"Not at all. It'd be good to have more eyes on it. Make sure I'm not crazy." Oksana glanced at her handheld again. "I better go."

Vice got in the last word, calling out as Oksana started out the door, "Watch yourself out there. Cosmic forces can be a bitch."

*

**Chapter 5: Anacortes**

Oksana thought that Anacortes at night was as pretty as anything she had ever seen. She slowly walked along the marina, enjoying the symmetrical placement of lighting along each pier, the sparkle of more distant lights up the mountainside and reflecting in the water, the faint sounds of music and conversation and laughter rising from clusters of people here and there. Her contact had given her the dock and slip information, so she knew she was close. She discreetly aimed her pocket flashlight at the boats, scanned for their names...and there it was.

 _Serenity._ The last boat on the pier.

There was a light on over the hatch but no one on deck, so she called out softly, "Hello, _Serenity_ ," and aimed her flashlight at a porthole. A man climbed out of the hatch, stood squinting out. He was in shirtsleeves, brown canvas work pants and suspenders, rather than typical yachting costume, but there was the confidence of ownership in his stance. "Captain Reynolds?"

"Who's asking?"

Oksana held out her flashlight so it was lighting her. "My name is Oksana. We've exchanged messages."

He walked to the boarding ladder at the boat's edge. "Then I guess you found me. Come aboard." Oksana switched off and tucked away her light, stepped nearer, and he put out his hand to help pull her up.

"You have the item?" she asked.

He made no move to produce it. "I do. You have the money?"

Oksana held up her handheld. "I can have the funds transferred as soon as we're ready. Before we do that, however, I need to speak to you about the item. To confirm its provenance."

"Why don't we go in, then." He gestured her toward the hatch.

At the foot of the stairs, Oksana took a quick glance around, and smiled with pleasure. She knew little or nothing about boats, but this one felt like it had seen many years of use, and been lovingly restored. The belowdecks was fitted with varnished wood and polished brass, every item neatly stowed -- a warm and welcoming place.

"Have a seat." He indicated the built-in table and benches that immediately adjoined the galley wall. "Can I get you something?"

"Yes, please." She smiled at him, aware that he had not actually expected her to take him up on it. "Whatever you're having."

After a slight hesitation, he went to the galley and turned on an electric kettle, started taking mugs and a teapot out of the cupboards. Oksana watched him. He was undeniably handsome, but there was a certain weariness to him, lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke more of adversity than age. The boat and its captain suited each other well, she thought.

He put everything on a tray, brought it to the table, sat across from her. "You might want to give it a minute to steep." He looked at her warily. "So what do you want to talk about?"

Oksana sized him up, decided that it would be best to be straightforward. "I imagine you found the original description of what we were looking for to be...a little flaky."

He shrugged. "None of my business."

"It's worse than you know," Oksana said apologetically. Building rapport. "The client is very particular, and will be interested not only in the item itself, but how it was obtained. I need to know who you are, how you came to have it, why you are selling it now. Everything."

He sat back deliberately. "That seems a bit personal. Intrusive, even."

"The provenance is the reason we're willing to pay well above market value." Oksana waited, then said, "Do you mind if I start by asking some questions?"

"You can always ask."

"Your boat is beautiful. Can you tell me a little about her?"

The question caught him off guard. " _Serenity_? I've had her almost five years. She looked nothing then like she does now -- suffered a lot of neglect -- but I could tell she was something special."

"Is she a -- I don't know the right words -- a recreational craft?"

"She's a sixty foot racer-cruiser sailing yacht, so you could say that. But she works for a living." He spoke with affection. "We do skippered charters pretty much anywhere along the west coast, from Vancouver to the Galapagos. We'll do trans-Pacific. Just a question of weather and timing."

"Does it pay well?"

"Enough to keep going." His tone was guarded.

"Is smuggling something you do on the side, or is it a mainstay of your business?" Oksana kept her tone non-judgmental.

"I don't mind delivering the odd shipment. Don't much care what it is or whether there are taxes owing on it to some government or other."

"But you do seem to have preferences. You don't move guns or drugs."

"Hard to outrun the Coast Guard in a sailboat," he said sardonically. "I also don't much like getting shot at."

Maybe it was just pragmatism on his part. Maybe not. "Where is your crew?"

"Gave them the night off. We got a four-week charter starting tomorrow, so it'll be a while before they get another break."

"Do they participate in your side business?"

He looked at her. Said nothing.

"What did you do before you acquired _Serenity_?"

"None of your business." Immovable. "Tea's probably ready."

Oksana poured tea for herself and the captain, watching him for a moment. Decided to let it go for now. Took a sip from her mug. "May I see the item?"

He went to the galley, opened a drawer, seemed to be feeling around before he pulled something out. He came back to his seat, put down a small package wrapped in undyed cotton cloth, grimy with handling and age. He unwrapped the cloth carefully to reveal a light-coloured, roughly cylindrical object, tapered at one end, about five inches in length. "Raw ivory. About eight ounces."

Oksana looked at the fragment of tusk, yellowing and ridged. She didn't need to be wearing the brain activity detector to know that it had resonance for her. "Tell me about it."

"As requested, no elephants were killed in the taking of this tusk."

"I need more details than that, Captain."

He drank from his mug, then said, "I got it off a dockworker in Chennai, about a year back. Told me when he was a kid his family tamed elephants for farm work. The old matriarch of their working herd was a cow named Safi.

"One morning, they found her lying on the ground, the whole herd around her. She'd died in the night. He told me that the females don't usually have tusks, but she did, so they cut them off and saved them. They were too small to have much value, but they figured it was better to have something put by than nothing.

"The older brother eventually got the farm and one of the tusks. The fellow I met got the other and headed out to the cities to look for work. He had tough times, managed to get through them without selling. But his youngest boy needed money for some kind of medical technician's training, something to lift the family out of manual labour. He wasn't asking that much for it, and I figured it was small enough, wouldn't make much difference if it took me a while to re-sell it."

Oksana waited, but he said nothing more. "It's a good story."

He shrugged. "Can't actually vouch for it myself. It's what he told me."

"Did you believe him?"

"I did."

"Are you a good judge of character?"

"I only got my own judgment to go by." His gaze was steady, and Oksana found herself trusting him, even liking him. First things first, though.

"May I?" He nodded, and she picked up the little tusk. It was cool to the touch,  heavier than it looked. Then she went to work, taking her flashlight and a jeweller's loupe out of her bag to examine it more closely from all angles, touching her tongue to it, rapping it against her teeth to hear the clink. Finally, she took out a safety pin and cigarette lighter, heated the point of the pin until it glowed red hot, and pressed it against the tusk, looked closely again and held it up to her nose to smell it.

Captain Reynolds seemed reluctantly impressed. Oksana guessed that he had an appreciation for competence when he saw it. "You some kind of ivory expert?"

Oksana thought about the myriad and sundry expertise AB Logistics had developed over time, how desire and a little effort allowed them to do almost anything within the realm of human possibility. "It's amazing what you can learn off the Internet nowadays." She was surprised -- and oddly pleased -- by his brief flash of amusement, had to deliberately turn her thoughts back to the matters at hand. "I didn't find anything to contradict your man's story. It's real ivory, from an Asian elephant, who must have died at least forty years ago.

"On the basis of my findings and your judgement concerning the story, I'm willing to complete the transaction. I hope once we do, you'd be willing to answer just a few more questions. As part of the service I'm rendering to my client. But I understand if not."

He made a noncommittal noise. Oksana set up the wire transaction on her handheld, then passed it over so he could enter his account information. He keyed in numbers, handed it back, and she keyed in the confirmation. "And there it is. Thank you, Captain Reynolds."

"Pleasure doing business." There was the tiniest softening of the tension in his shoulders. Whatever he had said earlier about the profitability of his business, getting paid even this relatively small amount was important to him.

She carefully re-wrapped the tusk and put it, and her other things, back in her purse. He watched her, drinking his tea, and didn't move to usher her out. Oksana decided that was permission to continue. "I was wondering why you decided to reply to my original inquiries. Especially when we gave no indication at the outset about the price we were willing to pay."

"You didn't want much ivory, which sounded sort of interesting. Like you had a project, rather than a regular pipeline you needed to fill. Guess I'm partial to small business interests, given I'm one myself." He took a sip. "And then there's the fact you wanted ivory at all, despite the fact that it's illegal to buy or sell it...but wanted to be ethical about it. Kind of wondered how you squared that circle." His gaze was sharp, but Oksana refused to squirm.

"It isn't easy, of course. We try to be true to our principles, stay on the side of the angels. But it isn't always possible."

"Answer to a higher authority, do you?"

Oksana thought there was some old bitterness there. "We don't hold ourselves above the law. We know we are fully answerable for our actions. If they catch us." She allowed herself just a hint of smugness there, was rewarded by that flash of amusement again. "What about you?"

"Much the same. There was a time I...well." He fell silent for a moment. "We're all just trying to get by."

Oksana found herself feeling a kind of ache for him, wanting to offer...something. But their business was done. She had a feeling for the kind of man he was, what kind of resonance he lent to the procurement. She had no reason to press further. "I should probably get going. Can you recommend a hotel in town?"

He shook his head. "I don't much go ashore."

"I thought Anacortes was your home port." Though when Oksana thought back, none of their communications had actually specified that, only that Anacortes would be a convenient meeting place.

"Don't have one."

Oksana hesitated. "Why not?" she asked finally, fully expecting to be told to mind her own business.

But he looked at her, and maybe he was tired and a little vulnerable. Or maybe in their transaction he had found some reason to trust her. "Come see." He stood and walked to the bow, and Oksana followed. There were steps and a door that led to the bridge, but he kept going up to the bow deck. He stood and looked out over the water, barely visible. Oksana did the same, and was filled with sudden wonder.

 _Serenity_ had the last slip on the outermost pier, so all Oksana could see was the darkness of water, seamless against the night sky that arched over them. Stars glittered above and were reflected below, so that it felt to Oksana as though they were floating in space. It was breathtaking, and they stood silent before it for a long time.

" _Serenity_ 's my home. Only one I'll ever have."

Wordlessly, Oksana slipped her hand into his. He tightened his fingers around hers, even as he said awkwardly, "I don't want to be keeping you from--"

"I don't have anywhere I need to be until morning." Oksana wasn't sure what she was promising, only that she could no more walk away from him at this moment than she could stop breathing.

There was silent thanks in his grip, though he didn't meet her eyes. "Guess I didn't really want to be alone tonight. It's a...an anniversary, of sorts. Six years ago today. Every bridge I ever crossed burned behind me.

"This is all I got left."

Oksana said nothing, sensed he didn't need words from her. Held his hand for an endless moment, watched the slow turning of the stars while he relived his memories, or possibly fought not to. Finally, he exhaled audibly, his battle lost or won. Only then, when she knew that his mind was back on the here and now, did she turn towards him. When he turned his head to face her, she leaned forward to press her lips lightly on the corner of his mouth, drew back to look at him through lowered lashes. An invitation. Her heart was beating fast, and there was a curl of anticipation inside her.

He hesitated. "I don't want to be taking advantage--"

"It's not clear to me who would be taking advantage of whom, Captain," Oksana tried to keep her expression serious, but her lip twitched.

Amused: "My friends call me Mal." But still he hesitated. "You change your mind, there's a spare bunk here, with a lock on it. Don't feel you--"

"Mal," she said as firmly as she could. He looked into her eyes searchingly, then finally, finally took her in his arms and kissed her, lips gentle but without any hesitation at all.

Oksana put her arms around him and kissed back. They swayed together, lips and then tongues exploring in leisurely fashion while they tucked slightly chilled fingers in each other's hair, at the nape of the neck. The warmth shared between them contrasted with the breeze at her back, ruffling her hair, chilling her arms. Even though it was summertime, it was surprisingly cool after the sun went down.

At some point he spoke against her lips, "I'd be happy to go on kissing you all night, but it's getting kind of cold. Mind if we take this inside?"

Oksana murmured a happy assent and they turned, holding hands as they went back down belowdecks. Mal's cabin was tucked just behind and below the bridge, as tidy and welcoming as the rest of the boat. They sat on the neatly made bunk, turned toward each other, let their lips touch again, undressed each other with unhurried fingers. He took a long look at her, auburn hair tumbled down to pale shoulders, all made golden by lamplight. "So beautiful," he said quietly, gathered her in his arms.

At first, they tucked themselves under the quilt, held each other and kissed without urgency, enjoying the skin to skin contact, the warmth and comfort of one living, breathing human body against another. Oksana thought that would be all right, if they literally slept together and did nothing more.

Then Mal put a careful hand on her breast, brushed his thumb over her nipple, noted her sharp intake of breath. Did it again. Oksana shivered. It was like an electric current straight into the warmth between her legs. And again, then holding the nipple in a firm, pulling grasp, and they were kissing again, but now they were panting into each other's mouths, a tangle of tongues and teeth, urging each other on.

He continued tugging on one nipple with his thumb and forefinger while he lowered his mouth to the other, laved it with his tongue, pulling it into his mouth and sucking. Oksana groaned and tried push her breast farther into his mouth.  He put a hand under her back to support her, kept tugging and sucking until she writhed against him, desperate to have more of him.  

She pulled him up to kiss her again so that they lay full length against one another, used her thighs to pull him close enough for her to rub her wetness against his fully hard cock. He groaned, " _Oh_ god", put an arm under her, his other on the bunk for support, and lifted, turned them both so he was sitting up in the bunk with Oksana straddling his thighs.

He reached into a nearby drawer, pulled out a strip of condoms and scanned them hurriedly. At Oksana's questioning look, he said sheepishly, "Just checking the expiry date," which made her laugh. He put them down within her easy reach, rested his hands on her hips. "You okay with driving?"

"Tell me if I'm going too fast or too slow," she murmured, then bent her head down to kiss him. At this angle, she could plunder his mouth, and did, enjoying the feeling of him straining up towards her. She reached down to squeeze his cock and he threw his head back, smacking it soundly into the wall of the bunk, which made him curse. She put a hand on the back of his head to give it a consolatory rub, but soon returned her attention further down, giving his cock another squeeze, then tearing open one of the condom packages and rolling the condom on.

She raised herself up on her knees, grasped him in one hand, and eased herself down, taking her time, enjoying the way he opened her up, the way his breath stuttered. When she had him deep inside her, she leaned back, guided his mouth back to her nipple, and let her eyelids flutter shut as he sucked gently on first one, then the other. She felt all the sensations come together and build, tightening deep within her, rode the edge of it. She could feel herself getting close and slowed down, pulled him away from her nipples, wanting to draw it out, make it last. _God, so good, so good._..

Then Mal breathed, "Oksana," his fingers tightened on her hips and he was convulsing into her, and she felt the sweetness of his climax push her over the edge so that she crested and broke, back arched like a bow, Mal the archer aiming her and releasing her into the sky, again and again. When she finally came down, tumbled into the bunk beside him, she hazily felt him put his arms around her before she fell into deep and dreamless sleep.

*

Oksana woke in the first light of morning, to see that Mal was already awake beside her and looking at her with grave tenderness.

"Morning."

"Good morning," she smiled back.

"Shower's there if you like."

"Thank you."

It was oddly comfortable. Oksana cleaned off quickly, retrieved a clean top and underwear from her bag, which was still at the dining table. He offered her breakfast and she regretfully declined -- she had an early flight. They did not kiss, but he took her hand when they said their good-byes. She stepped in to embrace him and she felt his other hand cup the back of her head as they stood together a moment, both thanks and…

 _And blessing,_ Oksana thought.

And then she was gone, in a taxi on her way to the airport, and Oksana was thinking through how to report to her friends.

*

**Oksana:** I'm on my way back to LA now.

 **Tyler:** Did cosmic forces have their way with you?

 **Oksana:** More or less.

 **Tyler:** I guess the world really is coming to an end.

 **Oksana:** Very ha. How is the drum coming along?

 **Tyler:** Resonator is shaped and polished.

 **Zhen:** Oksana, we followed up on your lead.

 **Vice:** We're doomed.

 **Zhen:** Yes.

 **Oksana:** Anyone having second thoughts yet?

 **Tyler:** Still no point.

 **Oksana:** What's next?

 **Vice:** Albuquerque.

 **Oksana:** Trying to obtain the blood of a murder victim.

 **Vice:** Yep.

 **Oksana:** You never did say how you planned to do that.

 **Vice:** With great skill and daring. And some role-playing.

 **Vice:** Should be back by Tuesday morning. I think.

 **Tyler:** You better.

*

**Chapter 6: Albuquerque**

"Walter White."

He stopped short at the threshold. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my apartment?" He glanced around, presumably confirming that this was indeed his apartment.

"I let myself in." Vice smiled at him, sat casually at his kitchen table as though they were old friends.

"Do I know you?"

"A friend of yours is the acquaintance of an acquaintance of mine."

He looked at her for a moment. "That's a 'no' then."

"I imagine you're hungry, would kill for a shower. Why don't you go freshen up, I'll make some dinner, we'll talk while we eat."

"I need you to leave."

"No, you need to stand under hot water for at least seven minutes. Do that first, then we'll talk."

Vice could see he was wavering, and not just because he was tired and hungry and sweating. She had dressed carefully, put herself where he could see her in a glance. Low-cut tank top which showed off small, high breasts and the smooth skin of her strong shoulders, skinny jean shorts, a geeky watch which marked the positions of mathematical constants like pi and e, rather than the more usual numerals between 1 and 12 -- all designed to shape his impression of her. _Non-threatening_ and _a little unusual_ and _possibly sexually available_. Even if he wasn't actively interested, it all came together to influence his subconscious. Vice saw it tip him over.  

"Excuse me then, Ms...?"

"My name is Vice."

"Vice," he repeated, eyes narrowed.

She shrugged. "Blame my parents."

"Well. Make yourself at home." Ironic.

Soon Vice heard the shower running, and she quickly put together the meal. She had chopped everything beforehand, so all that was needed now was boiling water and some stirring. When he came back out, damp and wearing clean clothes, she was already dishing. "Nothing fancy," she said lightly, and brought everything to the table. "Linguine with garlic, olive oil and hot peppers. And a salad. And wine."

"Thank you." He sat down, disconcerted.

Vice put both plates in the middle of the table, waited for him to select one. "In case you think I'm here to drug you and take your kidney," she explained. He took one, she took the other and started eating first.

After a moment, he did, too. "This is good."

"It's dead simple. I can give you the recipe, if you like." Vice poured wine, again waited for him to select first, took a swallow from hers. "I understand you're a science teacher. I teach, too. From time to time."

He frowned. "Are you here to talk about teaching?"

"No. I'm here because I need something from you."

"What is that?"

"I'd offer to pay you, but I understand you're already making money hand over fist." He tensed but said nothing. "I don't think I could offer enough to interest you."

"What do you want?"

"I tried to think of what you might want that money can't buy. And then it occurred me how lonely you are."

His lip twisted. "So you're a prostitute?"

"It's easy to find someone who'll have sex for money," Vice said dismissively. "I think you'll find yourself grateful and relieved to give me what I want. So really, it's going to be a win-win."

"What do you want?" he repeated dangerously. His hand clenched around his knife.

Vice didn't let it faze her. "You shot someone the other day. A drug dealer. There was blood spatter on your clothes. I want the blood. "

His jaw went rigid. He was obviously trying to figure out her angle, how much she knew. "You trying to blackmail me?"

Vice shook her head. "I don't need your money. And I'm not law enforcement. Really, all I want is the blood. To get it, I'm going to need one of your articles of clothing. I'd prefer the pants -- they absorbed the most -- but if you have a particular attachment to them, I'll take the jacket or shirt."

"You some kind of...collector? That's a sick hobby, you know that?"

"I could have gone into your closet and just taken what I wanted. But that would be stealing, and I don't want to do that." She stood, gathered up her plate and cutlery. "There's a bit more if you're still hungry?"

He pushed back his chair. "So you thought you'd feed me dinner and I'd give you bloodstained pants and we'd be square?"

Vice put her plate and cutlery in the sink, turned calmly to face him. "No. What I was thinking was, you give me the pants, and in return, I let you tell me a story. And _then_ we'd be square." She ignored his huff of disbelief. "But it has to be a true story, or one you think is true. And I know you're not ready to do that.

"So I'm going to get you ready." For the first time, Vice let her voice harden.

His pupils dilated in response.

 _Got him._ She sauntered over, stood over him, put a single finger on his forehead, took it away. He shivered involuntarily. "What happens next is going to freak you out. A little. I will leave no lasting marks, and if you ask me nicely to stop, I will." She could see in his eyes the fear of humiliation warring against arousal, curiosity, desperation for the touch of another human being. It was no contest. "Green, yellow, red. Do you understand?"

"Green... Yes. I understand." He swallowed.

Vice took the knife from his clenched hand, laid it on the table. Bunched the front of his shirt in her fist, pulled him to standing so they were almost nose to nose. Saw his unconscious flinch when his primate instinct realized for the first time she was as tall as he was, and stronger than she looked. Not quite the helpless female she first appeared. "Go to your bedroom now." She released his shirt.

He turned and walked down the hallway, neck muscles bunched as though he had to stop himself from looking to see if she was following. Vice made sure her steps were audible. When they were in the bedroom, she said, "Take off your clothes. Lie face down." He did so, arms akimbo and palms down on either side of his head, as though surrendering. Vice sat on the bed, put one hand on the back of his head for a moment, the naked scalp cool under her palm.

Then she lightly vaulted herself over him to straddle his hips, and ran her hands down his back, on either side of his spine. He tensed, and she put a hand over the back of his neck, squeezed and held it in warning. "Relax." He took a deep breath, managed to relax his shoulders.  Vice started running her hands along him again, partly a massage, but mostly just long strokes along his shoulders and down his back, over his buttocks and down his legs to his heels. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, one after the other, pulling down and away from his shoulders. His breathing deepened and she knew from the lack of tension in his hips that he was soft.

She put her hand on the back of his neck and said, "I want you kneeling. Wrists crossed, on the headboard, and keep them there." She adjusted his position with light touches on his shoulders and hips until he was leaning slightly on his forearms, used one finger to nudge his knees further apart. He kept his eyes down, his breathing just a little harsh. Vice kneeled next to him where he could see her, slowly took off her narrow belt of braided leather, doubled it, held it loosely in one hand. "First, we're going to soften you up, get you used to telling the truth."

She moved in close to his side, put one hand on the small of his back, brought down her belt smartly across his buttocks. He yelped. She knew from previous experience it had the snap, the sting of a cane. "Three more." She brought it down three more times. He didn't cry out, but he exhaled loudly after each impact. "Tell me your name."

"Walter White."

She rubbed his back soothingly, then brought down the belt twice more. He smothered a whimper at the second. "What do you do, Walter White?"

"I teach chemistry." Snap. "And cook meth." Snap, snap.

"Good boy. Tell me your wife's name."

"My wife? What--" He turned his head.

Immediately, Vice took her hand off his back, got off the bed, well out of his personal space. "Do you want to stop, Walt? Are you yellow? Are you red?"

He hesitated. "No."

Vice didn't move. "Are you green?"

"Yes. Green. Fuck." He was angry, but he had lowered his head, was staring at the bed again.

"Say it again."

"I'm green."

Vice got back on the bed, ran a hand over his back, from his neck to the dip above his buttocks. And again and again, while he slowly breathed his way back into the headspace. It was approaching abuse of the protocol, she knew, to threaten a drop, especially with someone as touch-starved as he was. For what it was worth, she had no intention of letting him fall. She caressed his shoulder gently. "Are you green?" she asked again, this time in a sultry voice that made him shiver under her hand.

"I'm green."

"Then let's start again. I lost count. Let's call it...five." Snap. Sharp inhale of breath. Snap. Snap, snap, snap. Whimper. "Tell me your wife's name."

"Skyler."

"That's a lovely name. Three for loveliness." Snap, snap, snap. On the third, he cried out, tried to choke it back. "Do you love your wife?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that lacks conviction." Snap. He cried out again. Snap. Choked on his breath. "Do you love your wife?"

"Yes!"

"Good, that's good. I heard it that time." She reached down to grasp his hard cock, which had to be aching. She gave it a squeeze and a couple short strokes, which wrung an agonized moan out of him, before running her fingers back up his side and onto his back again. "Time for some harder questions. Brace yourself, Walt." Vice carefully laid five sharp cracks across his buttocks, equally spaced in parallel lines. He panted and whimpered and finally sobbed through them. "The boy you work with sometimes. Tell me his name."

"J-jesse. Jesse Pinkman."

"Jesse." Vice put down her belt, rubbed her hand over his buttocks, which were a mess of fading red stripes, making him sob louder. She knew he probably felt like he had been flayed open, although she had been careful not to cut the skin. "You care for him."

"Y-yes."

Vice took a latex glove from her pocket, snapped it on. Took a small bottle of lube from another pocket, liberally coated her gloved fingers. Put her gloved fingers against his perineum, rubbed soothingly, then pushed one in. "He's come to mean a lot to you."

"Oh, god, oh, god..."

Vice stilled her hand. "What was that, Walt?"

"Yes. Yes, he means a lot..."

Vice resumed her one finger caress. Slipped in a second finger, twisted her fingers around and curled them slightly until Walt cried out and pushed back against her hand hard. She put her free hand against his neck warningly and he subsided, trembling. "He was there that night."

"Yes." A whisper.

"He was there the night you killed that drug dealer." Vice continued to push her fingers up inside him methodically, grazing the prostrate one out of every two or three strokes.

"Yes."

"You were there for _him_."

"Yes."

Vice pressed herself right up against him for the first time, one hand beside his crossed wrists on the headboard, her mouth near his ear, her gloved fingers twisting up inside him, over and over again. "Tell me a story, Walt. What happened?"

"He...he was gunning for them. Two of them." He could barely get the words out, was writhing up against her gloved hand, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. Sweat or tears tracked down his face. "Fucking child-murderers. For fucking honour or...or revenge...what the fuck. He was going to get himself killed. He was always such a fuck-up.

"I, I was almost too late. Could see in my head, couldn't let them _oh god fuck_ \--" Vice slowed down, let him pant through his frustration. "Couldn't let them. I ran right into them, with the car. Got one under the wheels. The other got thrown clear. I went, grabbed his gun, shot him. Didn't even think about it."

"And then?"

"Told Jesse. Told Jesse to run." He tried to catch his breath, was unconsciously pushing his hips up, seeking Vice's intimate touch.

"Why?"

"To save his life."

Vice looked at him sharply. "Really?" Pulled her fingers out of him, turned the glove inside out, neatly threw it into the trashbasket by the bedside table. "Do we need another lesson in honesty?" Picked up the belt and started laying into Walt's buttocks with vicious precision, where the bruises were already starting to bloom, maximum pain with minimum damage.

"No, god, no--" he cried out, then sobbed when Vice paused. "No, no, don't stop, please--"

"Please what?"

"Please. Please just fuck me again. Please." He was shaking apart, eyes screwed shut again, but his wrists were still obediently crossed on the headboard.

Vice looked at him, calculated how much farther she could push him. Trailed her belt lightly over his back. "Well. Since you asked so nicely." Put down the belt, dug in her back pocket. "One glove left. Don't make me waste it." Snapped it on, lubed it up. Pressed herself up against him again, her mouth at his ear. Circled his perineum once with slick, gloved fingers. "Tell me a true story." Pushed two fingers back into him without warning, making him gasp sharply.

"The truth. The truth..." he mumbled, shaking as he backed onto her gloved fingers, again and again. She didn't reprimand him this time. "I don't know. Maybe...maybe I did it to save myself. He was such a fuck-up, such a liability. And if they thought he'd done it, they wouldn't think it was me. I'd be safe. I was safer with him away."

"Anything else?" She angled her fingers, letting them hit Walt's prostrate with almost every backward thrust he made.

"No. Yes, _fuck_. Yes. It was for him, too. They would have killed him. Or if it'd been him. He'd have had to run anyway. I did it for him. I, I..." He was panting like a marathoner, shaking, sweat pouring off him. Vice noted that his fingernails were just a touch blue. Compromised lung function. It was time to bring this to a close.

"You've been such a good boy, Walt. Good boys deserve a little treat--" She slid a third finger into him, started pistoning in, doing all the work. He moaned, cocked his ass up, spread his trembling knees farther apart. "Good boy..." Bracing herself against his side, she pushed her gloved fingers high inside him, moved her free hand down to his cock and jerked hard, half a dozen times. "You're allowed to come now, Walt."

He stiffened and cried out, a long, suffering note, came so hard it sprayed the headboard and ricocheted everywhere, every muscle contracting, sphinctering tight around her gloved fingers still deep inside him. He held that position for an endless moment, eyes rolled back in his head, before he gradually came back to himself. Relaxing his muscles in slow increments, getting his shaky breath back under control, but not moving otherwise. Keeping his wrists on the headboard.

Because Vice wasn't finished yet. She kept her fingers where they were, on his now-soft cock, shoved far up his ass. "Are you sorry at all? For killing? For being a murderer, several times over?" Vice kept her voice gentle. It didn't matter for her purposes. The point was to let Walt discover a truth about himself.

"I'm, I'm sorry. For not being...a better person. But I don't regret killing those fuckers at all. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I'll do it again without thinking twice." He was suddenly still, struck by what he was saying. "I love the people I love. I kill the people I kill. It's all me."

 _There._ Vice let the feeling wash over her, better than a physical climax. The thrill of truth, the thrill of having been the one to coax and drag and thrash it out of him. It was all her.

She let go of his cock, eased her gloved fingers out of him, turned the glove inside out and disposed of it like the first. Put her hands on his shoulders. "Take your wrists off the headboard. Lie down on your side." He did, and closed his eyes, exhausted. She rubbed his shoulders soothingly, then went to the bathroom to retrieve a wet washcloth. Ran it over his face, his groin, his buttocks. Wiped down the headboard. Put it to one side. Retrieved her belt.

Went to the closet to grab the pants that she had identified long before he had come home. Came back, put a hand on the back of his neck. When he opened his eyes blearily, she held up the pants. "We're square." She saw the acknowledgement there. He closed his eyes again.

She let herself out.

*

**Vice:** Mission accomplished.

 **Oksana:** Are you all right?

 **Vice:** Sure. My arm is a little tired. Didn't realize I was so out of practice.

 **Tyler:** You can't blame us for worrying.

 **Vice:** Zhen, back me up here.

 **Zhen:** I already told them you had it under control from beginning to end. They want to hear it from you.

 **Zhen:** It was magnificent work, by the way.

 **Oksana:** Where are you now?

 **Zhen:** On our way back to LA. See you soon.

*

**Chapter 7: Los Angeles. One last time**

"Is it ready, then?" The words tumbled from the client while she was still at the door. She sounded like a little girl today, sweet and excited, maybe to match the summery frock she was wearing. She still had the chiffon scarf wrapped snugly around her throat, the same aura of danger, portent and sexual energy that had attended her at every meeting.

Vice, who had opened the door for the client, merely nodded toward the sitting area, and followed her in. The finished damaru sat on a simple wooden tray on the coffee table. The client settled herself in her usual low chair, her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes burned with unearthly light.

"Tell me about my drum."

The four friends had rearranged the seating, so that the client was now on one side of the coffee table, and they were side by side on the other, facing her. Tyler spoke first. "As requested, the drum is made from once-living things. The resonator -- that's the body of the drum -- is carved from thousand-year-old oak, the striker beads from ivory. We used white calfskin for the drumskins and thongs."

"And the blood?"

"High-velocity droplets from a gunshot victim were extracted from the murderer's clothing, augmented, and incorporated into the tanning of the drumskins," Zhen replied. "If you would like to see the pattern that resulted, I can apply luminol now." At the client's nod, Tyler stood to dim the lights, and Zhen sprayed both sides of the drum. On both sides, a chaotic swirl of eerie blue glowed faintly for about thirty seconds, then faded. Tyler turned back up the lights.

"Beautiful," the client breathed.

Zhen continued, "Before we conclude, there are just a few things we'd like to get out in the open. If you're willing."

The client's lips quirked. "Of course."

"We didn't realize it at first. We haven't met your kind before, that we know of." Zhen was almost apologetic. "But once we put together a few things -- what you wanted, your effect on us --"

"--the weird confluence of cosmic forces--" Tyler added.

"--your names, the fact that you didn't actually seem to exist in our world. In retrospect it seems obvious. You're a god. Or as close to one as makes no difference."

A smile hovered on the client's lips, but she said nothing.

"Pure One. Saiva. Rudra. Shiva." Oksana spoke each name quietly, eyes fixed on the client, an incantation. "Creator and destroyer. Male and female. Will you make your presence known?"

The client stood, her eyes lit with inner fire. "Like this?" Slowly unwound the scarf from her throat, which began to shine, at first faintly blue through the cloth, then brighter and brighter until it was lustrous and brilliant as a jewel. Everything about the client seemed to glow, eyes and throat and hair like tendrils of molten gold, became so blinding they could not look directly at their client, who was a deity.

"Or this?" The very air began to sizzle and sing with unknown and unknowable harmonics, and they felt an almost irresistible urge to prostrate themselves, tear at their garments, crawl away in the hopes of escaping unnoticed. It was utterly terrifying.

Nevertheless.

Notwithstanding the pounding of her heart, Zhen addressed the overwhelming light. "We understand that you dance both creation and destruction into being, and that you will use the drum we have made in your dance. To be honest, we have no idea which you are planning -- whether your next dance is necessarily the destruction of our world, or if you dance endlessly to keep creating the world from one moment to the next. Our myths are a little vague on that." Zhen faltered, and Tyler took over.

"We just want you to know...even if you're a god. Even if it's the end of the world. We're not asking for mercy. Or forgiveness, or anything like that. We're not praying, we're not confessing and we're not glorifying. We're not your worshippers, and the drum isn't an offering. We had a contract. We did our part." Tyler took a breath. "Guess the next part is up to you."

The four friends waited. Out of the unbearable light the client's voice, now neither male nor female, said, "The dance will be beautiful." The light dimmed and died. When they looked, both client and drum were gone.

*

"So what do you think happens now?" The four friends had sat in silence together for some time after the client's disappearance. Tyler was the first to finally speak.

Oksana touched the tray where the damaru had been. "We made the drum to the best of our ability, with the cleanest hands we could. We took every opportunity to bring more love, affection, care and comfort into the world that we could. If karma means anything, we'll get what we deserve. We can't ask for more than that."

"What do you think the blood thing was all about?"

Vice shrugged. "A test to see if we'd actually kill. A dark side counterbalance to the positive energy generated by all the procurement sex we had. A way to give the victim a voice after death. Who knows? Maybe she just thought it'd be fun to scare us. Fucking gods. They can be fickle that way."

"I'd like to make a New Year's toast," Oksana said suddenly.

Zhen raised an eyebrow. "It's still the middle of summer."

"It feels appropriate. Like a new beginning is just around the corner."

"You have a point, " Zhen conceded. " You get the champagne, I'll go find some glasses." Soon they were back around the coffee table, each of the four of them with a glass in hand, the open champagne bottle taking pride of place on the wooden tray.

"What are we toasting?" Tyler asked. "The end of the world? Femme fatale clients? Nookie on the job?"

They all looked at one another and said together, "To friends."  


THE END  


**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at writing porn; I hope it wasn't too excruciating :)
> 
> For those of you who are familiar with each of the fandoms represented and want to know where in the various continuities this fic supposedly takes place, it is: some indefinite time pre- _Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_ ; some indefinite time pre- _Avengers_ ; _Firefly_ AU after Mal acquires _Serenity_ and before Jayne joins the crew; and shortly after "Half Measures" in season 3 of _Breaking Bad_.


End file.
